Heaven can wait
by sparklef0x
Summary: Drive x Hotline Miami-inspired AU. Elsa is a film student by day and a contract killer by night, concealing her identity under animal masks. Maybe it's just her imagination. She lives alone, she drives at night, and there's something going on between her and the girl next door. They don't know what it is, they just want to learn from each other. Elsa x Anna (cover art by me)


**A/N:** This AU isn't a crossover, but the atmosphere and parts of the storyline are based on _Drive_ and the indie game it inspired several years later, _Hotline Miami_. It's okay if you don't know either, as the story mostly explores what's going on in Elsa's head and Anna's heart, and how they fit into each other's lives (if you prefer reading it on AO3, there's a link in my profile). Enjoy.

* * *

**Heaven can wait**

**01 - fractures**

Elsa glanced at the phone as soon as she stepped inside her small apartment. She always did. It was part of coming home, like taking her shoes off or washing her hands in the kitchen sink, one of those everyday rituals that wove hours together into something recognizable. Elsa tried not to rely on them too much, to keep a part of her life outside her comfort zone. It was a tricky balance.

She dried her hands and pulled her textbooks and notes out of her bag, placing them on the table, then went to the window and drew the curtains further apart to let some more light in. She didn't mind her north-facing apartment, didn't mind that it was bathed in cool shadows all day, except for an hour or two, when a ray of sun would find its way in and touch the furniture, the bedspread, all sharp angles and revolving geometry. It was hot enough outside, anyway. The Santa Anas blew in relentlessly.

She embraced the view. Urban sprawl, sun-drenched and polluted, high-rises in the distance – her city, between the desert and the deep blue sea.

The impulse to forget about the phone and just go out for a drive, windows open and AC off, seized her hard. She basked in it for a minute. In that weightless space between decisions, something could happen, and maybe it wouldn't, but at least it was out of her hands. She went to sit on her bed before the feeling had a chance to wear off, and pressed a button on the old receiver sitting on the nightstand. Two messages. The first one was from her mother, the other from her employer, a stranger's voice spinning one of their trademark little stories ("_Hi, it's 'Christine' from the Sierra Madre's dating service._") to give her a time and a place ("_We have set up a date for you this evening. Hotel California, room 42._"), and always those cheeky instructions that seemed to hold some secret meaning Elsa couldn't quite grasp ("_Give it your best shot!_").

She closed her eyes. What would it feel like if she opened the window, right now? There would be noise, the hum of the city, wind in the sails. The curtains. Or something.

She grabbed the phone and dialed her mother's number. She lay back against the pillows, her eyes fixed upon the patch of sky she could see from her bed. Violent blue, or late afternoon blue, or farewell-to-arms blue.

Her eyelids grew heavier with every dull ring on the other end. Her head felt so light. Soaring, even. Her mother's soft voice brought her back down.

"Hello?"

"Hey, mom."

"Are you okay, sweetheart? You sound a little off."

"I'm a bit tired. I just got home."

"Long day at the library?"

Elsa nodded as if her mother could see her. "There's a..."

A few seconds passed. "Yes?"

"There's this paper I'm working on for my Film History class. I'm having a hard time getting anywhere."

"Oh. When is it due?"

"The end of the semester, so I've got time." _I've got time. I'm reading a lot, I found a few articles for the bibliography. It's interesting. I don't have anything to say. It's getting harder with every assignment. You know, mom, I—_

"It's been years since the last time I had to write an essay," her mother hesitated, "but I remember that feeling, when all you've got is a mountain of books, messy notes and a blank Word document, and you're somehow supposed to turn all this into a proper essay. It always felt insurmountable at first, but it ended up taking shape, little by little."

"Yeah." Elsa cleared her throat. "So, about your message…"

"Oh, yes. Well, your father and I are taking your grandmother out tomorrow evening for her birthday. Nothing fancy, just dinner and a movie. You're more than welcome to join us, if you want."

Elsa rubbed her cheek. "Thanks. That sounds nice, but I'm not sure."

"I know a family dinner isn't the most exciting thing, but if you're free, I think… you know how it is. The less you go out and see people, the less you want to. Even your dad and I, when some friends invite us over, we just…," her mother trailed off, and Elsa imagined her shaking her head, looking for the right words, not finding them. "We have to drag ourselves out of the house and our cozy routine, but once we're there, we often have such a good time. It's all right if you don't want to come, but you sound like you could use a break."

Elsa smiled. "I know I would have a good time."

She heard her mother's intake of breath, but whatever she was going to say, she decided against it and silence settled lightly between them. "Same here, Elsa. We love spending time with you. But you're right, you have your own life, you know what you need better than we do." She let out a half-hearted chuckle. "We worry too much."

"A little. I'd miss it if you didn't."

"Then we're both getting something out of it, I suppose. Anyway," her mother added quickly before Elsa could think of something to say, "if you decide to come, just give me a call tomorrow and we'll pick you up. Otherwise, see you for lunch on Sunday? Your dad wants to bake something, for some reason."

"Sure. Hey, mom?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Elsa. So much."

Elsa gave in and let her eyes close all the way. "Good," she whispered.

"You sound like you're falling asleep, so I'll let you rest. Have a good evening, sweetie."

"You too, mom. Bye."

"Bye."

She set the phone back on the receiver and eyed the books on the table across the room, but she didn't feel like it. Besides, she'd need a clear head for that job later. She fiddled with her alarm clock and lay back down on the mattress, her hands resting on her stomach. The heat radiating through her thin cotton dress was comforting, so she stayed like this, very still, very calm, because the steady rise and fall of her chest wasn't something she took for granted. That's what she loved about her night jobs – her thoughts, her body, her car, working together without words and without fail.

She was already awake when her alarm clock went off at 7:30 p.m. She'd drifted off for a while, but she'd spent the last hour going over her mental map of the city, deciding where to park when she'd get to the hotel. When she started in this line of work, she used to ponder possible escape routes beforehand, in case the five-minute window she allowed herself proved insufficient. But not anymore. No, what mattered was simply knowing where everything was, every block, every stoplight, every tunnel, every bridge, all the shortcuts and industrial wastelands – the tools at her disposal, should she need to improvise. Elsa was an escape artist gracing an urban canvas with secret labyrinths painted in asphalt, nightlife neon lights and speed limits.

She slipped out of her dress, folded it in the laundry basket and took a quick shower – longer showers were for darker hours, for washing away more than sweat and fatigue. She put on a clean tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, then grabbed an apple from the kitchen counter even though she wasn't hungry, and ate it by the window. The sun hadn't dipped below the horizon yet, but the city lights were already coming to life. She poured herself a glass of chocolate milk. That stuff always left a bad taste in her mouth so she brushed her teeth afterwards, then grabbed her lucky jacket, the one with the silver fox embroidered on the back, and walked out of her apartment, locking the door behind her.

A young woman was already waiting for the elevator in the hallway. Elsa had seen her a couple times before, so she assumed they lived on the same floor. The girl returned her polite nod.

The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open before them, but neither of them moved, waiting for the other to step inside first. They exchanged a glance and the girl shrugged with a tired smile. She seemed relaxed, and so was Elsa. She always was – she'd slip into these clothes, this secure state of mind, get inside her car and drive, and get it done, whatever it was, wherever it was. She knew it all by heart.

She ended up stepping in first. "What floor?"

"First, thanks."

Elsa complied before pressing the garage button for herself. The doors closed and she tucked her hands inside her jacket's pockets, leaning against the wood panels. Her fingers were already closing around her car keys. She noticed a folded uniform on the young woman's arm, the words _Mickey &amp; Mallory's Diner_ stitched in cursive lettering on the breast pocket. She was probably going to work. The girl raised her head and caught her staring at her uniform, but Elsa defused the awkwardness with a smile before lowering her eyes.

When they reached the first floor, the elevator slowed down a little too fast and Elsa felt her center of gravity shift for a second. She thought about those pictures you could buy after a roller coaster ride, the ones they snapped during the scariest drop, where everyone looked so happy to be there, pounding hearts and all. The girl readjusted the thin strap of her handbag on her shoulder, nodded in Elsa's direction and walked out. The elevator resumed its descent. Elsa closed her eyes. Didn't open them until she could breathe in the intoxicating smell of gasoline that permeated the garage.

She made her way to her car, twirling the keys around her finger.

* * *

_Three blocks away from the hotel, I think that's far enough. I have thirty-five minutes to kill, so I'm taking my time choosing tonight's mask. They're all in the duffle bag inside the trunk, along with a large, folded map of the city. I buy a new version every month to keep up with the changes, the new road segments, etc., but some things are never updated. Some things never appear. All the negative spaces. I mark them, in blue, in red, on every new copy._

_It's time. I turn my jacket inside out, so that only the midnight blue lining is visible. I tuck the crowbar I just bought between my jeans and my lower back. I can feel it ramrod straight against my skin, like a spine. I fold tonight's mask in my pocket and get out of the car. _

_And here I am. Fourth floor, room 42. My best shot. My hand rests loosely on the handle. My body is leaning against the door. My thoughts are skin deep. I'm fine._

_A series of clicks on the other side. My target closing a suitcase? A rattling sound as he drags it across the room, closer, closer. A light tug on the handle, it trembles under my palm, this is my cue._

_I swing it open and the impact is brutal. He yelps, falls back clutching his head. He's seeing stars, I'm sure._

_And now he's not seeing anything, because the crowbar came swinging and I heard his skull crack and he's twitching a bit and I didn't let any of that gory mess stain my clothes and I'm fine._

_I check my watch, four minutes left. Time is on my side. I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room and it throws me off. I'd forgotten I was wearing a mask, as I often do. Tonight, I chose Louise the Chameleon, because I like to think she makes me faster, though I don't know why and these are just stories and names I make up for them, the masks._

_There was this one time I didn't forget, though, because I was sweating under Charlie the Octopus and the sensation of clammy rubber pressing against clammy skin was a constant reminder. I wanted to rip it off my face. I even threw up in a dumpster afterwards, but not because of that. I threw up because a guard dog jumped me as I was making my way out. I killed it and it was disgusting, I hate it when they have dogs, hate the sounds they make, the sounds they stop making when I'm done with them. When I got home, I made a new mask, Teddy the Dog, hoping that maybe it would stop them from attacking me. I wore it once, but there were no dogs. Or maybe it worked and they just left me alone._

_Two minutes, time to go. I clean the parts of the crowbar my hands have touched, I drop it on the floor by the body, I close the door behind me and wipe the handle with a handkerchief. I used to wear gloves on every job, but they just get in the way. I use the fire exit and take off my mask as soon as I step out into the empty back alley. I turn my jacket inside out again. I walk back to my car, I put Louise back where she belongs, in the duffle back with all her friends (they're not really friends), I get behind the wheel and I drive I drive I drive, time's on my side._

* * *

Anna closed the metal door behind her and slowly made her way through the alley and around the corner, running a hand through her hair. She sat on her usual bench after a quick glance to make sure it was clean. Gloomy streetlights darkened the night, but there was something invigorating in the air, something lukewarm and heady. She exhaled and blinked drowsily. Two more hours and she could go home. Laundry was overdue so she'd do that first, and then she'd treat herself to a long shower, long enough for her fingertips to get all wrinkly. Afterwards, she'd open the living room windows and lie down on the couch, letting the night breeze and the TV lull her to sleep. Maybe cook some dinner, too. And check up on Kris.

She took a pack of Smarties out of her uniform's front pocket. Kris always bought her heaps of tax-free candy when he dropped by a big enough airport on his way home from a job. Not enough to last her the weeks or months he'd spend on his next gig, but still. It's not like there was anything else to bring back, considering where he usually worked, though he did take beautiful pictures of those oil rigs and their raw, industrial charm. Very artsy.

She brought a small handful of Smarties to her lips, but didn't chew, letting their colorful coating melt on her tongue and paint it blue, or green. She turned around to glance at the front of the diner. The aggressive neon lights spilling from the windows made it stand out in the night. Her boss briefly appeared, carrying dirty plates. All of a sudden, Anna she felt like she'd stumbled into the wrong movie, or maybe like she was sitting on a deserted set after the actors and the crew had left for the night. Like everything was just cardboard, and the road in front or her was an optical illusion that promised her all the elsewheres in the world. It wasn't a bad feeling.

She relaxed against the bench and tilted her head back until the sky filled her vision. Pitch black, stars eclipsed by the glow of the city.

"Making a wish?" a warm voice called out behind her.

She whipped her head around. Mallory had opened the diner's door and was leaning against the frame, lighting a cigarette. Anna returned her smile.

"You need me back inside?"

Mallory shook her head. "Enjoy your break. Mickey can handle an empty restaurant for five minutes."

Anna nodded and went back to stargazing. Her grasp around the pack of Smarties loosened and a few tumbled out onto the sidewalk. She squinted but the light from the streetlamp made it difficult to tell which color they were. Hopefully she'd only lost the brown or red ones. _Who cares_.

When she finally glanced at her watch, her break was over by a few minutes. Mallory was no longer on the diner's threshold. Anna shook herself out of her daze and walked back inside.

At this hour, there were no customers, it was just the three of them in companionable silence, their minds ahead of the clock, ready to call it a night even though, inevitably, tired drivers and night workers would wander in for a meal or a cup of coffee before closing time.

"Hey Mal, why don't you get over there and pick us something nice," Mickey told his wife, motioning towards the jukebox.

Mallory obliged and soon, a languid beat filled the empty diner. Anna smirked. _Sweet Jane_, again.

"Come on, Anna," Mallory grinned, eyes closed, her body already swaying like a snake hypnotized by a fakir's moves.

Anna glanced at Mickey. He was drying glasses. "Don't mind me," he said in that singsong voice of his, southern drawl in every syllable. Anna loved his voice. And she loved dancing – alone, most of all. She smiled, threw her apron over her head and joined Mallory by the jukebox.

* * *

_I meant to go home but I've ended up here again. The abandoned building. I don't know why this keeps happening, why they're waiting for me in that run-down apartment on the third floor, why they talk to me, what it is they're telling me. Should I keep it in mind, close to my heart?_

_There are windows in the apartment but the air is thick, like ink. They're here, in the dark, __**Horse**__, __**Rooster**__ and __**Owl**__, sitting on their broken armchairs like kings and queens, like judges and old friends._

"_What is she doing here? I don't want her in this house," __**Owl**__ spits. "I don't know who you are. You're not welcome here."_

"_Hey, girl. Can you handle it?" __**Horse**__ whispers, always the gentle one. Handle what? "You don't need to figure it out, just keep your feet on the ground. And get some sleep."_

"_Oh, but we've known each other for so long. So very long," __**Rooster**__ tells me. There's a smile behind the mask. "We're going to meet again, and you'll lose so much, and you might learn something, or nothing. But… no hard feelings, friend."_

"_Go to hell," __**Owl**__ hisses. "And then, for all I care, crawl your way back up and don't look back."_

_**Horse**__ shrugs. "Or do."_

_The lights seem to dim and I can't make out their silhouettes anymore. I stagger out of the apartment, then down the blind staircase and out into the night. The drive home is soothing, like an afterthought. Even car lights, traffic signals and glowing signs are muted, mindful of my tired eyes._

* * *

Anna stepped into the shower, taking her beer with her. She set it carefully on the soap dish next to the bottle of shampoo, where it wouldn't get soaked. It was her third, on an empty stomach. First one upon coming home, to wash that endless day away, second one in front of the TV, for no reason. Third one because by then she still wasn't buzzed and she really needed something to breathe some space, some lightness back into things. She wasn't feeling okay tonight, like a dumb bird freaking out in a glass house. She turned the water on and waited until it was warm enough to step under the showerhead.

She rested her palms against the tiles and stayed there, unmoving, until she could feel the alcohol finally making its way through her system, dulling certain sensations and sharpening others, like the soft pounding of water on her skin. It felt so good. She wanted to feel like this all the time. Didn't she use to, not so long ago, when merciless sun, love and rainy days were coursing through her veins instead of alcohol? Keeping her high, safe, drunk on life.

Steam slowly filled the bathroom, making it hard to see anything. By the time she reached for her beer, it was lukewarm and the can was slippery, but she didn't mind. She tilted her head back to gulp it down, letting water run into her open eyes. After a few more minutes, or maybe an hour, a shaky sigh escaped her lips and she turned the water off.

Wrapped in a towel, she swiped a lazy hand across the mirror and gave her hazy reflection a little smile. Hair dripping wet, she made her way back to the living room, nestled into the couch and dialed Kristoff's number.

She cleared her throat. "Hey, baby."

"Hey yourself, night owl." The connection wasn't great and she hardly recognized his voice, but the warmth in his tone was unmistakable. "Shouldn't you be in bed at this hour?"

"I'm in bed. Well, on the couch. I wanted to call you," she slurred.

"Are you drunk?" he chuckled.

"A little. It was a slow night at work. I danced."

"You danced?"

Everything was swirling in her head. "Yeah. There were no customers and Mal, she just… she's one of those girls. Nothing to prove, just does whatever she wants whenever she wants. _Sweet Jane_ was playing on the jukebox, and she was just dancing. Said I could join her. I did and I realized…"

"Yeah?"

"I realized I wanted to, you know?"

"I'm not sure, but I wish I could have been there," he said kindly. "Did you have fun?"

"I did," she murmured. She closed her eyes for a second, fantasies colliding behind her eyelids. Dancing, dancing, dancing. For herself. She was glad Kris hadn't been there. She was glad no one was here. God, she was drunk. "Are you happy, Kris?"

"Anna, how many drinks did you have?"

"I don't know. Three."

"Okay. Huh, am I happy… well, I'd be happier if I didn't have to be away for months on end, if I could spend more time with you, but yeah. I'm happy. I'm happy to come back to you, to hear your voice, to make plans for the future… what about you?"

"I don't know," she said again. There was a long silence on the other end of the line. _I mean, is that all there is to it?_ _Just work, and more work, and a paycheck and some downtime and ways to make it pass, and us, making love and making plans?_ Not drunk enough to say any of this out loud. "I'm okay, I mean, it's the whole routine thing, sometimes it gets to me. But I'm good, don't worry. It's just one of those nights."

"Ah. I get those too, sometimes – all the guys do, here. It's so remote things stop making sense after a while, like we're on some backwater space station light years away from home. Not gonna lie, I don't say no to a strong drink when it happens, so I don't blame you for needing a glass of wine. Or three. Or whatever it is you're having."

Anna wasn't sure they were having the same conversation. "Just beer."

"Lightweight. Anyway, maybe we can talk about it when I get back, figure something out?"

"It's okay, that's just the way things are. There's always a routine, I've just got find a way to be happy with that."

"I don't think so, Anna. See, I look forward to things. To coming home, to seeing you, maybe to have our own house one day, and kids, and… all that stuff. I look forward to things. I don't want you to just cope with daily life, secretly hoping something will finally happen."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not. Sure, it hurts a bit to hear that you feel, I don't know… disappointed? But we'll figure it out together. I want you to look forward to things, too."

Anna hummed, her eyes on the TV screen. Some old western, horses running across endless cinemascope landscapes. "What if that's not what _I_ want?"

"Honestly, I don't know what to say. What happened to Happy Drunk Anna? Should I be worried?"

She let out a silent sigh. "Of course not, silly. Also, I ate my last pack of Smarties at work tonight, so hurry up and come home. I'm running low on candy."

"Oh dear, we wouldn't want that. I'll see what I can do, princess. Hey, I'm on call right now so I should probably go, but I'll call you tomorrow. When's your shift?"

"Same as today, late night shift. Call me sometime in the afternoon?"

"Sure. Are you gonna be okay?"

"I love you, Kris," she said. The things that crossed her mind were too strange to share.

"Love you too, grumpy drunk."

"'Night, baby."

"Sweet dreams."

Anna turned her attention back to the screen, entranced by those silent images stitched together in a particular order, telling a story she wasn't interested in. Maybe, if you shuffled them around, a different montage would tell a different story? Or not make sense at all, or a weird experimental sense, like something straight out of a fancy exhibition in some large, sterile white room, in a contemporary art museum where you never knew if what you were looking at was a masterpiece or a piece of shit or a prayer, or whether the fire extinguisher on the wall was a statement, some post-whatever conceptual ready-made, or just a damn fire extinguisher that could actually save your life.

Anna went to the bathroom, absent-mindedly ruffling her wet hair with the towel, and reached behind the door to grab her pajamas, but there was nothing there. _Right_. Half her clothes and sheets and towels were down in the laundry room, she'd even had to use two separate machines to fit them all in. It wasn't a problem, it's not like anyone else in the building did their laundry in the middle of the night. The cycle was probably over by now. Anna briefly considered retrieving everything in the morning, but wet clothes smelled funky when left too long in the drum.

She made her way to her bedroom and opened one of Kristoff's drawers, pulling out some shorts and his favorite tee-shirt. He'd worn it so many times it was soft as silk, and that's what Anna wanted to feel against her skin, and under her skin too, because she was a little drunk and floating somewhere light and beautiful.

She was halfway out the door when she realized she'd forgotten the laundry baskets. She sauntered back into the bathroom to get them, catching a glimpse of her tangled hair in the process. She was pretty sure she wouldn't run into anyone at this hour, and even if she did, they'd probably notice she was wearing her boyfriend's worn-out crap first anyway. She thought it kind of looked good on her, though, in that sexy, loose fitting way that was probably all the rage somewhere. The hair, however, did not look good, so she brushed it and ran her fingers through it a few times. Just the right kind of messy. And she looked like a panda with those dark circles under her eyes, but tired was sexy, too. Everything was sexy. In fact, she looked so damn good she suddenly wished she would run into some dashing stranger on her way to the laundry room. A cowboy, a gunslinger with a wild Harley-Davidson painted all sorts of demented colors, riding it into the night. And that wasn't even the alcohol talking. Just that black and white western from earlier.

* * *

Not taking her eyes off the page, Elsa reached out to the empty seat next to her and rummaged through her small pencil case, pulling out a blue felt-tip pen. She tucked it behind her ear after highlighting a couple of sentences and readjusted her grip on the book – _The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalysis and the Cinema_, whose sharp angles were digging into the skin of her thighs, and resumed her reading. She often found herself glancing up, mesmerized by the endless tumbling of her clothes behind the thick glass of the washing machine. She could even catch glimpses of the sundress she's been wearing earlier, before changing into her work clothes.

She loved the laundry room at this hour. The steady hum of the machines kept her company, helped her focus on whatever she'd brought to keep herself busy. Sometimes she didn't even bring anything, she just sat there, thinking up stories about her masks, or movie scenarios she never starred in, or nothing at all.

She was surprised when the door opened, revealing the girl from the elevator, dressed a lot more casually, with two empty baskets stacked in her arms. Her hair was wet, staining the top of her tee-shirt.

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

"Hi again," the girl finally said, closing the door behind her as she walked in.

Elsa nodded and watched her set her baskets down in front of a machine nearing the end of its cycle, and just stand there, tapping her fingertips lightly against her thigh. She ended up sitting down, three seats away from Elsa.

"Late night laundry, huh?" she said after a minute or two, looking straight ahead, but with a smile.

Elsa closed her book and set it aside. "Yeah."

She focused on the texture of the plastic seat under her left palm, and that, a little rougher, of her jeans under the right one. After a while, one of the machines started spinning, nearing the end of the wash.

"You work nights, too?"

Elsa blinked. "Not really."

The girl smiled again. That sleepy, easy smile that didn't seem aimed at anyone in particular. "Just a night person, then?"

"Mostly a laundry night person."

She raised an amused eyebrow. "A laundry night person?"

Elsa returned her smile. "I like reading here when it's quiet, instead of being cooped up in my apartment."

"Right," the girl nodded. One of the machines fell silent, closely followed by another one. Elsa's was now the only one running. "Well, it's time for me to head back up, so I'll leave you to it," the girl said, getting up to retrieve her laundry.

It took a while. There was an impressive amount of clothes, and she took the time to fold everything, from towels to tank tops, before placing each article in the baskets she'd brought with her. Elsa watched. It wasn't that she did it particularly carefully, but there was a rhythm to it, slow and steady. She wondered if the girl always moved like that, deliberate, relaxed, like she had all the time in the world. She wondered how others saw the way she, herself, moved. Her eyes flitted about, looking for a mirror, a window, any reflective surface. She wanted to see herself with a stranger's eyes, the way one sometimes caught an unexpected glimpse of their own reflection as they walked down the street, in a car's window, maybe, and for a second, didn't recognize themselves.

"Do you need help carrying that?" she asked once the girl was done, now attempting to place one overflowing basket on top of the other strategically. "Mine won't be done for a while."

The girl motioned towards Elsa's books and notes. "What about your stuff?"

"It's not going anywhere."

"But you are."

Elsa shrugged.

"Sorry," the girl snorted, running a hand over her eyes. "I don't know what I'm saying. And yeah, I could use the help. Thanks."

"No problem."

Elsa picked up one of the baskets. She wanted to take care of the heavier-looking one, but it happened to have lacy underwear folded on top, so she settled for the other one. They made their way out of the laundry room, the girl holding the door open with her shoulder. They didn't talk as they waited for the elevator, or when they stepped inside, though they did exchange a glance when Elsa took a step back to let her in first this time.

"I'm Anna," the girl said as the elevator soared past the second floor. She looked at Elsa, her basket resting on her propped up leg, the untied shoelaces of her battered sneakers hanging limply. She didn't look overly expectant, so Elsa just nodded. The elevator was slowing down and the girl was still looking at her, like there was something amusing about the lack of small talk. "Do I get to know your name or do you want me to take a guess?"

The doors slid open. Elsa gently readjusted her grip on the basket and exited the elevator. "Three guesses."

"Okay. Let's see," Anna mused, leading the way. "How about Artemis?"

Elsa gave her a funny look. "Not quite."

This time, Anna actually turned around, walking backwards. "Alice?" Elsa raised an eyebrow. Anna stopped in the middle of the hallway, chewing on her lower lip. "Gabrielle of Potidaea. Wait, no. Joan of Arc? Mona Lisa?"

Elsa waited a few seconds in case there was another one coming up. "What gave it away?"

Anna answered with a playful shrug and they just stayed like this for a while and it was all right, even though Elsa's arms were starting to hurt. In the end, Anna resumed her walk, then stopped by her door and set the basket down on the floor to retrieve her key from her pocket. Elsa placed her own basket by the other one and took a step back while Anna unlocked the door, not wanting to appear like she was expecting an invitation, not sure she even wanted one. Anna carried the two baskets inside, then came back and stood in the doorway.

"You want to come in for a minute? The least I can do is offer you a drink."

For some reason, Elsa's eyes were drawn to the golden numbers on the door. 408. Four-zero-eight. She repeated the syllables in her head until they stopped making sense, until they started forming other words. Her gaze fell back on Anna. "Okay," she said with a smile.

Anna stepped aside to let her in. The apartment wasn't big, but still larger than Elsa's.

"I have, hm… beer and mango juice," Anna said from the open kitchen, checking what was in her fridge.

"Water's fine. Thank you." Elsa took in her surroundings. There was another person living there, it was obvious. Probably the man in the picture on the kitchen counter, with Anna's arm wrapped around his shoulders.

Anna handed her a tall glass of water. "There you go, Mona Lisa."

"Thank you." She took a sip even though she wasn't thirsty, then another. "It's Elsa."

"I was going to check the tag on your mailbox, anyway," Anna said quietly. For a second, it felt like they were sharing some secret joke. Elsa's eyes wandered again. The television was on, but muted. An empty beer bottle on the table. A box of cookies on the counter, next to that beautiful picture. Anna followed Elsa's gaze. "That's my boyfriend." Elsa nodded, not wanting to pry, but Anna seemed to sense her unspoken question and took it in stride. "He works abroad. On oil rigs, so he's gone a lot."

"Oh." Elsa drank some more water. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"It can be. I was worried, at first… when he started, it was only for the money, but then it grew on him. I mean, it's rough and there are downsides, obviously," she motioned towards the empty apartment, "but it makes him happy, for now." She shook her head. "He's weird."

The fondness in her voice warmed Elsa's heart. She gave a pointed look at the design on Anna's oversized tee-shirt. "Right."

Anna let out a helpless chuckle. "Yeah. I was about to go to bed when I remembered the laundry, so I just threw this on." She crossed her arms. "Besides, what can I say… his clothes just look better on me."

"Does he agree?"

"He doesn't know. He thinks he has good fashion sense, and I don't want to burst his bubble."

Elsa almost fired a playful comeback, but tightened her grasp around the glass instead and didn't say anything. It came easy to her, light-hearted conversation. She had to fight it. And maybe she was doing it wrong, maybe this wasn't the way to let some gravity into her life, and inconsequential exchanges were certainly meaningful in their own way, but she wanted something else. Words you could count on, learn by heart.

"So," Anna said slowly, "what do you do?"

"I work at a public library a few hours a week, and the rest of the time, I'm there anyway. Studying."

"Oh. You mean for yourself, as in a hobby, or?..."

Elsa shook her head. "No, I'm a film student. It's my last year. Most of my courses are online, but I don't have a computer or anything here, so I spend a lot of time at the library. Going through their DVD collection, mostly."

"You can watch DVDs there?" Anna asked with a frown.

"Oh yeah, there's a viewing room. It's small and not exactly cutting edge, and people usually prefer to borrow movies rather than watch them there, but if you can find a spot, it's cozy. A little too cozy, to be honest."

"I haven't set foot in a library in ages," Anna sighed. She was silent for a while. "Where is it? Your library, I mean."

"_My_ library?" Elsa noted with a smile. "Alexandria Boulevard."

Anna nodded pensively. "Who knows, maybe I'll drop by one day. Get some pointers from a film expert so I have something to watch besides whatever's on TV when I get home from work."

"Sure. But if that's what's on TV when you get back from work," Elsa hesitated, glancing at the silent television screen, "I'd say you're doing pretty good."

"Oh? Apparently it's westerns night. There was an old black and white one earlier, but I missed half of it. You know this one?"

"It's _She Wore a Yellow Ribbon_, by John Ford."

"You're a westerns buff?"

"I hadn't really paid attention to the genre until I had to watch quite a few of them for an assignment last year. It was a lot more interesting than I thought."

Anna seemed to focus on the movie for a while, so Elsa took another sip of water and did the same. The colors were so bright. Her eyes were drawn to the screen like a moth to the flame. _You don't have to say it, Captain. I know all this is because of me. Because I wanted to see the West. Because I wasn't…I wasn't 'army' enough to stay the winter_, Olivia was saying onscreen.

"What was it about? Your essay."

Elsa turned her attention back to Anna, but she wasn't looking at her. "The use of space. Westerns seemed like a good genre to focus on."

"Why?"

Elsa briefly wondered if Anna was just making conversation, but she had decided a while back to take most things at face value, so she answered in earnest. "I had a teacher who pointed out how westerns were always structured around space, no matter the plot. You have those literal landmarks, like the saloon, the frontier, the sheriff's prison, the sweeping vistas, but they also work subjectively. They're the spaces you conquer, the limits you cross, the zones you get trapped into or try to reach."

Anna puffed her cheeks. "I think you'd get along with Kris. Not that he's into movies, but… he takes pictures of architecture he likes. I mean, he's kind of down-to-earth and really technical about it, so I'm not sure he'd be into interpreting space, huh, subjectively, like you said. But he likes to learn. He didn't go to college, but he's always trying to make up for it. Sometimes I call him Wikipedia, just to annoy him."

"Kris is your boyfriend?"

"Yeah. Kristoff. Anyway, he'd probably be interested in this. Learning to analyze classic stuff like westerns, get the behind-the-scenes experience. What makes it, I don't know, a genre. Not just a bunch of movies about sweaty men drawing out their guns in slow-mo or something. He'd get it. Not like me," she snickered.

Elsa frowned. "You don't get it?"

"Not really. I'm not dumb, but it sort of goes over my head? Well, no, not over my head, like… I enjoy his pictures, but when he goes on and on about composition, negative space and all that, I just kind of… tune out. I don't mean to, and I get that instinct or emotion or whatever isn't all there is to it, that technique is important, but," she shrugged, "I don't know."

"You can analyze something technically," Elsa began, searching for the right words, the kindest she could find, "and still draw personal conclusions. Theory is a bit like a tool bag. You don't need it to appreciate something, but if you learn your way around those tools, you can use them creatively. Learn the rules so you can bend them, you know?"

Anna cleared her throat, still not looking at Elsa. "Well, when it comes to rules, I usually break them because I didn't have the patience to learn them in the first place. And not in a good, creative way, either. Just messy." She paused. "You must be good at this. Academia, I mean."

"Not really."

Anna raised an eyebrow and turned to look at her. "Come on."

Elsa just held her gaze for a while, debating whether to explain herself, but she'd never been very good at that either. Or rather, she'd never enjoyed it. "Take my word for it?" she offered.

"All right," Anna conceded, her voice unsure. "Sorry, I didn't mean to assume anything, you just sounded like you'd given all that theory stuff a lot of thought. Almost made me want to be a scholar myself," she added with a wry grin. "You'd make a good teacher."

"Thank you." The silence between them thickened. "I should get back to the laundry room." She looked around for somewhere to put her empty glass, but before her eyes could settle on the table, Anna's hand gently pried it from her grasp.

"Sure. It was nice meeting you, Mona Lisa."

Elsa nodded. "Thanks for the drink."

"Thanks for the help," Anna retorted with a good-natured shrug.

"You're welcome."

They just stood there for a moment. The warm air drifting from the open window, carrying the distant sounds of cars passing by, was slowly turning the silence into something comfortable. Like getting used to poison. Elsa shook herself out of these thoughts.

Anna walked her to the door and held it for her. "See you around."

"Yeah. Have a good night."

* * *

The sun was shining hard when Anna stumbled out of bed the next day. She pulled the curtains aside and basked in its warmth, clinging to the remnants of sleep and the dancing, colorful shapes that direct sunlight was imprinting on the inside of her eyelids. Her very own kaleidoscope.

When she began to get uncomfortable and sweaty, she retreated to the shadows of the living room. It was only when she exited the kitchen, steaming mug in hand, that she noticed the stapled stack of paper someone had slipped under the door. She took a sip of coffee, eyeing it curiously. Something occurred to her, but she didn't move from her spot by the couch, willing the uncertainty to last a little longer.

In the end, she crossed the room and knelt down, a brief smiled gracing her lips when her eyes fell on Elsa's name on the front page. _Film Aesthetics (306) – The Western genre: spaces to inhabit, spaces to be inhabited by_.


End file.
